


Underworldly Good

by sturmundfrei



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: (does that make him Dad-es), Canon Compliant, Gen, Hades tries his hand at parenting, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, everyone is older and possibly happier, someone take brackets away from me, sorry for that, this honestly terrible pun will make sense after reading I promise, this was supposed to be crack but something else happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5636308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sturmundfrei/pseuds/sturmundfrei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the defeat of Gaea, the chaos and intensity of Nico’s demigod life are a thing of the past. Having settled in Manhattan, he spends most of his days in a delightfully boring routine. Yeah—<i>most</i> of his days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Good Part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greekdemigod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekdemigod/gifts).



> This is the result of me misreading “Nino’s Pizza” as “Nico’s Pizza” because let’s face it, I’m always thinking about Nico. For the lovely [greekdemigod](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greekdemigod/pseuds/greekdemigod), who’s single-handedly responsible for my descent into Riordan hell (and I love her for it).

The keys jingle happily as Nico unlocks the door and steps inside. As always, he is greeted by the faint smell of tomato mixed with copious amounts of garlic. He smiles and makes his way through the small labyrinth of tables with stacked-on chairs to the counter, slipping around it and entering the back of the shop through the swing door. The smell intensifies—unsurprisingly, as the ovens have already been set to what Nico likes to call ‘disco inferno.’ (According to the manual, it’s called ‘pyrolysis’ and it involves the ovens cleaning themselves by burning off crumbs and sauce splatters, but why use the Greek when you can make it sound fun? Also, no matter what it’s called, it brings out the smells of greasy cheese and crisp crust before the food scraps turn to ashes, and that’s what’s important.)

Standing by the back door that leads to the alley is the person who fired up the ovens. Well, _person_ —Nico’s pretty sure that classification wouldn’t hold up in court, since according to every record ever, this person has been dead for nearly three hundred years. It kind of shows, too. His skin is a motley of gray and ghostly white, his eyes look patched with mold, and he moves with all the grace of a granite rhino. He’s dependable, though, and dressed in his black slacks and red shirt, he doesn’t even hurt to look at. Besides, the words on his white apron never fail to make Nico smile.

_Angel Pizza—Underworldly Good!_

Even though the name had been his ex-boyfriend Will’s idea, Nico feels a surge of pride every time he reads it. If anyone had told him six years ago that one day he’d be comfortably settled in Manhattan, running his own hole-in-the-wall pizza place with a bunch of zombie employees, he probably would’ve shadow-traveled the hell away from them. Today, he doesn’t need to shadow-travel anymore, unless they’re catastrophically behind on deliveries (which hardly ever happens, as most of his delivery zombies were motorcycle grand prix winners before they died, and his delivery spirits use the Underworld to meet the thirty-minutes guarantee).

The only thing his undead employees don’t do is actually bake the pizzas. (Nico banned them from chef duty after an unfortunate customer discovered a very dead, very rotten finger on their XXL Meatlovers—not a topping they’d wanted to pay for.) Luckily, Nico enjoys baking. He revels in the way the pizzas materialize right under his nose, shaped into existence only by his hands and a little heat. Creation isn’t a traditional skill for children of the Underworld, but now Nico can do it, and it never gets boring.

“Alright, then,” he says, addressing the waiting zombie. “Lots to do. The squad’s coming over for lunch.”

The zombie stares at him.

“Grab some of your colleagues,” Nico tells him, “and go set up the chairs and tables. Also make sure someone’s manning the phone, and that there’s backup for whoever’s manning the phone.”

It occasionally happens that his employees crumble to dust on the job, since zombies have a very limited supply of energy and are also notoriously terrible at interpreting their body’s signals, meaning they don’t notice they’ve overexerted themselves until they disintegrate. It makes taking people’s pizza orders a little challenging, and zombies aren’t that great at phone conversations to begin with—or any kind of conversation, really.

“Also,” Nico continues, “I need someone to compile an inventory of everything we need to stock up on, like flour and tomato sauce and that weird Ribena drink Sadie likes. I need it to be comprehensive. You got that, Bertie?”

Bertie grunts, which would’ve been extremely unhelpful if Nico hadn’t been fluent in Grunt. He nods and the zombie shuffles away.

Nico turns to his own work. He starts with dough, emptying a sack of flour into the enormous automated mixer and adding water, salt, and yeast in the proper proportions. While the machine hums in the background, he checks the ovens and turns off the disco inferno. A zombie comes in with a DustBuster to clean up the ashes, almost cleaning up himself in the process. Rolling his eyes, Nico sets a barrel-sized cooking pot filled with slices of tomato, basil leaves, chopped onion, and diced garlic on the stove. In an hour, the mixture will have turned into beautifully smooth, fresh tomato sauce. His pizzeria isn’t called ‘Underworldly Good’ for nothing—everything is homemade.

Before long, the faint smells of last night’s shift have been replaced by the abundant aromas of new pizza. Zombies are bustling around, folding cardboard boxes, mopping up spilled sauce or cheese, rearranging the chairs in the café area, wiping down the counter, helping each other into their delivery uniforms. Every Angel Pizza motorcycle is fitted with a sign on the back spelling out the pizzeria’s name and slogan; the Mist transforms _Underworldly Good_ into _Otherworldly Good_ for mortal eyes, so even ordinary pizza lovers in the New York City area are able to enjoy Nico’s creations. His most loyal customers aren’t mortal, though. Sometimes he wonders if Zeus knows how much pizza his wife eats in a week.

Around one o’clock, the chimes above the door give an impromptu rock concert that summons Nico from the kitchen. Immediately, Reyna envelops him in a warm, berry-scented hug. When she lets go, some of the flour coating Nico’s black hair and white apron has transferred to her brilliant purple blazer, but she doesn’t seem to care and gives him a smile.

“How are you?”

He barely has time to say _I’m good_ before Hazel jumps him. She nearly lifts him off the ground (impressive, considering she’s close to a foot smaller than he is) and for a moment her cloud of curly hair is all he can see. It’s Annabeth who grabs her by the collar of her shirt and pulls her back, laughing.

“Like you didn’t spend a small fortune’s worth of drachmas on Iris messages _this month alone_.”

“Iris messages are great, but you can’t hug each other through a rainbow,” Hazel says, scrunching up her nose.

Everyone laughs and Annabeth gives Nico his third hug of the day. Thalia embraces him, too, and Percy, almost knocking him over, and then Frank, who sometimes gives literal bear hugs but this time manages to stay human, and Piper, adding a kiss on his cheek, and finally Jason, whose glasses press into Nico’s cheek for a second. He doesn’t mind. They are his friends. Their presence warms him up faster than an oven set to disco inferno.

After they’ve piled their jackets on a chair, a zombie appears to push a few tables together and everyone takes a seat, of course accompanied by all the necessary shoving and ridiculous-names-calling and giggling as Jason and Percy try to sit in the same chair. Nico slips into the kitchen and barks some orders at a couple of idle zombies by the back door. They move robotically towards the giant fridge. Satisfied, Nico transfers six baking trays he’s had prepared for an hour to the largest oven, double-checks the toppings, and closes the oven door. At the same time, the chimes begin to rock out again. 

“Now that’s a jingle bell I can get behind!” Sadie’s voice carries into the kitchen. It’s followed by loud, enthusiastic hellos and a muffled scream that sounds remarkably like Annabeth being hugged to death. Nico takes a bottle of Ribena and a six-pack of root beer out of the giant fridge and jogs back to his friends, who are standing up again and exchanging hugs with the Kanes. Sadie whoops when she spots the bottle in Nico’s hands; Carter groans.

“You’re spoiling her,” he says, shaking his head.

“What!” Sadie snorts. “Are you trying to imply I don’t deserve that?”

“Nico spoils all of us,” Hazel says fondly. “He remembers all our favorite drinks and gives us free pizza. Best brother ever.”

“Take notes, Carter,” Sadie grins and she plops down in what had been Percy’s chair at the head of the table. Percy opens his mouth to argue, then decides against it.

“Bertie,” Nico says, “add another table and more chairs, alright?”

The zombie he’s addressed isn’t the same one he talked to in the kitchen before, but since time in the Underworld erases distinctive facial features and pretty much every memory of former lives, there’s no need to bother with individual names. The only zombie in Nico’s service who has one is Jules-Albert, singled out by his inseparable chauffeur’s hat; his name is also the inspiration for the generic ‘Bertie.’

“So where’s Will?” Piper asks, when they have all settled in again, Nico nestled between Reyna and Hazel. “And Leo? Still on honeymoon?”

“Hang on, Will married Leo?” Sadie butts in. Carter nearly chokes on the sip of root beer he’s just taken, splutters, and spits his drink into Jason’s face. Their respective sisters unashamedly burst out laughing; Percy and Piper join in, the others are slightly more discreet, hiding their grins and giggles behind hands or pizza menus. Jason takes off his glasses and wipes them on his shirt with a great deal of resignation. Carter turns a nice shade of Bordeaux, slumping in his seat. One of the Berties very helpfully brings them an empty napkin holder.

Thalia adjusts the silver circlet in her spiky hair and clears her throat, her mouth still curved into a smirk. “That’d be a plot twist, but no. Leo married Calypso, obviously.”

“Oh. Same old, then.” Sadie takes a gulp of Ribena. “So where’s Will? Who I still haven’t met since he’s always off saving the world with his medicine hands? And what about the guy with the furry legs we saw last time?”

“Yeah, Grover,” Percy says. “He’s off doing Council stuff. I remember him telling me something about a pond scum catastrophe near Jacksonville, but honestly, I kind of zoned out after he said ‘pond scum.’ I have no idea where Will is. I thought he was gonna be here.”

They all turn to look at Nico expectantly. He shakes his head and clarifies, “Had to go to Delphi, he Iris-messaged me last night. Apparently Apollo is freaking out about Rachel refusing to move there, so Will’s gone over to convince him it isn’t completely stupid of her. Didn’t Artemis tell you?” he adds, glancing at Thalia.

She shrugs. “She mentioned that Apollo’s freaking out, but when isn’t he?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Percy sighs and he downs his iced tea. The others follow his example with their own drinks—cherry coke for Hazel and Reyna, regular coke for Thalia and Jason, homemade watermelon lemonade for Piper and Annabeth, a chocolate milkshake for Frank, and Dr. Pepper for Nico.

They sit in silence for a moment, thinking about all the crazy things they’ve been through. At least, that’s what Nico’s doing. He doesn’t remember much from his life before Percy, Annabeth, and Thalia brought him and Bianca to Camp Half-Blood. He remembers nearly everything from his life after that, and most of his memories involve eight of the ten people surrounding him right now. Sadie and Carter are welcome additions, introduced to their squad by Percy and Annabeth a few years ago, and then of course there’s Will, whom he’ll always be grateful for even if they aren’t dating anymore. _Without any of these people_ , Nico thinks, _I would not be where I am today._ (In return, he gives them free pizza.)

“Hey,” Annabeth says at last, breaking the silence. “I could’ve sworn the legs of these chairs used to be red.”

She waves a hand around the room. Of course she’s the first one to notice—she helped design the shop, two years ago now, with a little interior-decorating input from their Aphrodite friend Eleni.

Nico nods. “They were, but the paint started peeling, so I told one of the Berties to repaint and forgot to mention which color I wanted. If you don’t give them clear instructions, they’ll basically just do whatever, so…”

That’s why the chairs now have erratically colored legs, like a scattered rainbow. Nico secretly likes it, even if it goes directly against the minimalistic color scheme Annabeth and Eleni cooked up. Speaking of cooking—he remembers the baking trays and jumps up.

“You guys ready for pizza?”

“Honestly, Nico, why do you even ask?” Reyna chuckles, as everyone around her erupts into chants of _yes, yes, yes!_ Nico grins at his Roman friend and dashes into the kitchen, happily aware that the swing door propels the wonderful smell of fresh food into the café. He dons his skull-patch oven mitts (a gift from Hazel, she made them herself) and gently lifts the trays out of the oven, easing them onto the marble countertop. Two Berties supply him with a stack of plates, varying in size, and then help Nico carry them out into the shop.

“Seafood Special with blue food coloring in the crust.” (Percy cheers.)

“Hawaii without ham.” (Piper blows him a kiss.)

“Capricciosa—ham, mushrooms, olives, and artichokes.” (Hazel claps her hands.)

“Creamy Bacon, extra creamy.” (Jason rubs his hands.)

“Americana—watch out, this pepperoni is _really_ spicy.” (Thalia makes grabby hands.)

“Vegetariana, no olives.” (Frank thanks him.)

“Four Cheeses and basil.” (Carter licks his lips.)

“Four Seasons with extra cheese.” (Sadie whoops again.)

“Architect’s Delight—eggplant, scallions, sweet sausage.” (Annabeth gives a delighted sigh.)

“Chicken Supreme, plus sundried tomatoes.” (Reyna inhales deeply.)

“And, blame Will for teaching me about puns, one Diavolo.” Nico sets down his own pizza, salami and bell pepper and onions, and gestures at the Berties. They step up to refill everyone’s drinks, then retreat into the back. Smiling, Nico lifts his Dr. Pepper. “What shall we toast to?”

“To Nico!” his ten guests chorus and clink their glasses together. After an encouraging poke from Hazel, Nico joins in, his cheeks practically glowing. 

This is another thing he’s created, he realizes. They have always been his friends, even when he refused to see it, but they were never a community the way they are now. Nico, who spent so many years pushing everyone away, is the one who keeps them together despite their busy lives.

(Percy and Annabeth have graduated from Camp Jupiter’s university; they rent an apartment close to the Empire State Building and split their time between monster-hunting, representing demigods’ interests at Olympus, and working mortal jobs—Annabeth is quickly rising in the world of architecture; Percy coaches a swim team at one of his old high schools. Hazel is acing her art history major and devotes her spare time to overseeing the new arrivals at Camp Jupiter, alongside praetors Reyna and Frank, of course. 

Jason and Piper are among Camp Half-Blood’s most effective scouting teams, bringing more young demigods to safety than anyone else, save maybe Coach Hedge. Thalia leads the Hunters into a dozen adventures a day and Will is—as Sadie put it—always off saving the world, traveling around in his father’s sun chariot to use his healing powers wherever they’re most needed. Leo and Calypso run a hotel plus repair shop for visiting demigods and are currently on their honeymoon in Atlantis. The Kanes work on rebuilding the U.S. Nomes and occasionally team up with Percy and Annabeth to spar with hybrid nasties.)

And yet, even when they are scattered around the continent, all Nico has to do is send Jules-Albert with an invitation and they will cancel other appointments, open a portal, commandeer a chariot, grab the nearest pegasus, and flock to Angel Pizza.

Nico feels so warm inside, he might as well be Leo catching fire.


	2. The Underworldly Part

Their lunch date lasts well into the afternoon—it’s nearing half past four when the last of his guests decide to leave. Nico lingers at the door for a bit, waving as Hazel jumps on Arion’s back and Frank turns into a giant eagle to carry Reyna home. Two delivery zombies push past him, each carrying a stack of pizza boxes, and he watches them speed off, too. After the hubbub of eleven people loudly catching up with each other’s lives, the silence is strange, but not unwelcome. (He loves his friends, he truly does—they are just so ADHD, a demigod quality that in Nico’s case seems to have been subdued by the serenity of the Underworld, and he needs to recharge.)

He’s distracted from his thoughts by a Bertie showing up at his shoulder. In an agonizingly slow voice, the zombie says, “Inventory.” He holds up a piece of paper the length of a baseball bat. Nico thanks him and accepts the list. The font size is enormous—zombies can’t see very well up close—but it’s neatly typed and it looks comprehensive. After glancing down the street one more time, Nico takes his list inside and returns to work.

The next five hours fly by. He orders more flour and tomatoes from his regular suppliers, bakes an XXXL pizza with every topping imaginable (Cyclops customers, he’s had them before), sweeps up the remains of three zombies, and takes a thirty-minute break to eat some Pad Thai. Then, for the sake of variety, he mans the phone for a bit. It’s oddly comforting to talk to mortal customers, but it only takes one conversation with a harpy to remind him why he tends to leave this job to his zombies—after having the harpy answer his questions with ‘Pissssaaaa’ half a dozen times, her annoyance and volume increasing exponentially with every word, he decides to go with his gut, send a calzone to Pisa, and hand the phone over to a Bertie.

Back in the kitchen, Nico takes a swig of Dr. Pepper and gets to work on more pizza bases. Halfway through a stack that needs tomato sauce, he’s interrupted by the sound of nails scratching at the back door. Nico is not surprised. He opens the door and coos, “C’mere, kitty, kitty!”

Small Bob appears from behind a garbage can, meows, and claws at the door again for good measure. Then he starts to purr, which isn’t something he’s ever been taught to do, so it sounds a lot like growling. Other people might find that a little intimidating, especially coming from a skeleton cat, but Nico picks him up and gives him a good scratch between the ears. There are many advantages to having a skeleton pet—they don’t shed, they don’t need to eat, and they can usually turn into a larger, scarier version of themselves. Nico hasn’t been harassed by monsters in years. (He can probably also contribute that to several other things, such as his Ghost King reputation, his involvement in both Kronos’s and Gaea’s defeat, the fact that he survived Tartarus, his Stygian iron sword, his tendency to crack the earth whenever he loses his temper, and his ability to turn people into spirits, but _partially_ at least it has to be Small Bob being fiercely protective of him.)

Nico takes the cat inside, unbothered by Small Bob’s claws digging into his shoulders. They work on pizzas together for a while, the cat huffing at toppings it doesn’t like (anything vegetarian) and the baker calming it down by rubbing its belly. Now and then Small Bob tries to take a bite out of Nico’s ear, but he tries it so gently Nico just lets him. It’s a comfortable thirty minutes, right until the chimes above the door start playing.

Those chimes were a gift from Tyson, who produces excellent weapons but _sensational_ trinkets; they adjust their sound to whoever’s entering the pizzeria, making everyone feel instantly at home. Nico’s friends are generally heralded with energizing rock music when they arrive in a bunch, but they all have their individual tunes. Hazel’s is soft New Orleans jazz, for instance, and Reyna always gets a Queen song, and for Percy the chimes play I Go Swimming by Peter Gabriel ( _I go swimming / swimming in the water / swimming in the pool / swimming is cool_ —Percy is a simple guy with simple needs).

This time, it’s music Nico hasn’t heard from the chimes before, and it sends a shiver down his spine. The only thing he can compare it to is a lament, or more specifically a type of hymn known as a threnody—derived from the Ancient Greek for _wailing ode_ , an essential part of equally ancient funeral rites. Small Bob yelps, turns into his fluffy calico self, and curls around Nico’s neck like an intimidated scarf. An icy chill settles in Nico’s bones.

There is only one person the chimes would play this for.

When Nico enters the café, Hades is sitting in the middle of the room, at the head of the cluster of empty tables where Nico’s friends sat earlier. It looks wrong. He is dressed in his Lord of the Underworld robes, pitch-black and shimmering with what Nico knows are lost souls. His shoulder-length hair is combed back to reveal a pale, high forehead and eyes like rough-cut onyx. The multicolored chair looks frightened, too small to hold the god’s frame, and even the other furniture seems to have lost some of its brightness, as if Hades’s presence drains the light from the café.

At the same time, he is studying the pizza menu, which looks tiny and tacky between the Lord of the Dead’s bony fingers.

“You have an excellent selection available,” he says, his smooth voice all too familiar, and he sets the menu down. Nico doesn’t move from his spot by the door. Unperturbed, Hades continues, “Why don’t you surprise me? I have no preference.”

Nico bites back the reply he actually wants to give (‘What in the name of the river Styx are you _doing_ here?’) and returns to the kitchen. As soon as the door swings closed, Small Bob scrambles down Nico’s arm and dashes into the corner behind the giant fridge. On his way there he runs straight through a zombie, who disintegrates into a pile of dust. Nico kicks at it before he can stop himself.

What in the name of the river Styx is Hades _doing_ here?

Nico hasn’t seen his father in years, not since Gaea’s defeat. For a while, it had felt like their joined efforts in the war could and would tighten the bond between them—they’d achieved some level of mutual trust, respect even—but in the aftermath of the battle, Hades had gone right back to being distant and elusive. All of the gods had done the same, with the not entirely voluntary exception of Apollo (which had been no help at all).

Of course, Nico could’ve gone to the Underworld, more easily than any of his friends could’ve gone to Olympus, but the disappointment had been too heavy in his chest. Even with his sister’s warning on his mind— _holding grudges has always been the fatal flaw of children of Hades_ —he hadn’t been able to let go of his resentment towards his father. And it’s still there, he realizes as he wipes the zombie dust off his combat boot, resentment tangled up with so much more: fear and respect; a grudging kind of admiration that he has never told anyone about; regret, and a wish upon a star ( _let him care for me, let him be proud of me, let him accept me_ ); anger and betrayal and so much abandonment; and despite all that, still a pinch of trust.

“And now he wants a fucking pizza,” Nico grumbles and grabs a plastic container filled with shredded sardines. He’s tempted to ‘accidentally’ set the oven to disco inferno, but he reins himself in. No matter how he feels about Hades, it’s never a good idea to piss off the god of the dead.

Fifteen minutes later, Nico delivers a large pizza topped with sardines, onions, sweet peppers, and arugula. The scent wafts into his face and he’s almost sorry he’s going to give this wonderful creation to his father, but he does it anyway. He even supplies a knife and fork before stepping away, leaning against the counter for support. After all the things he’s done in his life, it shouldn’t feel this surreal, but it does.

Hades inclines his head and carves out a perfectly triangular piece. He chews carefully, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he swallows and says, “I’ve had this pizza before. Your mother made it once.”

Nico stares. His heart jolts and it takes him a second or two to register what’s welling up inside—outrage. This isn’t _fair_. He barely remembers his mother. All the memories he might’ve had of their life together have been washed away by the river Lethe. After that, he’s only gotten to see her once, literally a ghost of herself, in one of his father’s memories. Whenever he tries to think of her, her face blends with Bianca’s. He’s never even known his mother used to bake.

All of that is Hades’s fault. And that very same god, that distant and obnoxious and _undeserving_ being, still gets to remember her pizza (still gets to remember her smile).

“You know what?” Nico says, and the tiles beneath his feet crack when his voice does. “I’ll get you a take-out box.”

He turns around, ready to stalk off, but the sound of Hades setting his cutlery down somehow holds him back.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you,” the god says. There is a kind of quietness to his voice, a gentle undertone, like he’s actively trying not to sound threatening or manipulative.

Still, Nico refuses to look at him. “Then what did you come here for, huh? Got another life-threatening quest I need to take care of for you?”

“No, I don’t,” Hades says evenly. “It seems your defeat of Gaea has stabilized the world for now. If I recall correctly, even with the powers of Delphi restored, Miss Dare hasn’t issued a new Great Prophecy yet.”

He’s right, of course. There have been a few prophecies, a few quests, but none of them as major and potentially apocalyptic as the ones Nico went on. The thought makes him feel old, like he’s one of those grandpas spluttering about ‘back in my day’—the difference being that back in his day, they had to try and prevent the end of the world on a near-daily basis, and he’s actually glad that the new campers won’t have to do the same. He doesn’t miss the weight on his shoulders at all.

“I’m here for personal reasons,” Hades continues. “Which is to say, you.”

 _Aren’t I lucky_ , Nico thinks. Despite his snark, he notices a slight hesitation on his father’s face—on normal people, he’d call it apprehension, in some cases maybe sheepishness. He doesn’t want it to, but it softens him a little.

“I realize that we have lost touch in recent years, and I see now that it should have been at least partially my responsibility to prevent that.”

This is an apology, Nico understands suddenly, an actual apology, even if it’s said with the flair of a sunken submarine rusted shut. Hades is… apologizing? The thought is too bizarre, too impossible, but it’s happening anyway. Hades is admitting to a fault, and he is _apologizing_.

Nico blinks twice, then coughs, running a hand through his messy hair. “Well, uh…”

“I shouldn’t have expected you to come visit me, since I did not extend an invitation or visit you myself.” Hades takes another triangular bite (and it’s starting to look like a divine power, the way he cuts his pizza into perfect slices). “You understand, of course, that I am a busy man—the Underworld does not run itself—but still, I should have been able to fit you into my schedule.”

Nico wants to say something, if only because he feels increasingly awkward and his cheeks are growing hot, but his father never gives him the chance.

“You are, after all, my only son.”

“Yeah, thanks, Dad,” Nico blurts out. He grimaces, trying to access the ‘neutral facial expressions’ folder in his brain. It supplies him with a look of intense discomfort instead. He’s fully prepared to get angry at Hades, to confront him and yell at him and conjure some shadows. How is he supposed to deal with this soft-voiced, conscience-stricken Lord of the Dead?

“I mean,” he begins again, “yeah, I am, but it’s been years. We haven’t talked in _years_. Why show up now?”

“You know time passes differently for us,” Hades says. Whether he means ‘us gods’ or ‘us in the Underworld’ isn’t clear, but it doesn’t matter, because both are true—and doubly so for the actual god of the Underworld.

Nico does know, and he nods. Without fully realizing it, he releases his grip on the counter and sinks into a chair by the table. He doesn’t move a whole lot closer to his father that way, but Hades’ face creases into the faintest of smiles all the same. Immediately, the room seems to brighten, the darkness radiating from the god’s robes diminished.

“I also noticed you’ve been making quite a name for yourself,” Hades says, holding up the slice of pizza on his fork by way of example. “I became curious, and I must say, your reputation hasn’t been exaggerated. This is excellent.”

“I didn’t know you liked pizza,” Nico says dumbly. (Of course, he could add, “I don’t know much about you at all,” but for some reason, he swallows the reproach.)

Hades rearranges a leaf of arugula on his plate and explains, “I have always had a fondness for Italy. Something about the way they handle death and the dying is most pleasing, even if everything is steeped in Catholicism.”

It’s an answer Nico finds himself appreciating, and not just because of the unexpected honesty. He can relate to it. The battle with Gaea and the aftershock aren’t among his favorite memories, but he’s glad for one thing: that they asked him to perform the funeral rites. He knows how to do them properly, he knows the right invocations and the correct actions. There’s more to it than burning a shroud, and the knowledge that he helped lay people’s spirits to rest takes the sting out of his grief.

Something tells him Hades knows what he’s thinking—the faint smile now touches his eyes, smoothing out the onyx. Nico shifts in his chair, not used to seeing this expression on his father’s face. All gods are frugal when it comes to smiles, save maybe Poseidon on his benevolent days, but still, most of their faces hold traces of a smile, hints, possibilities. Zeus is stern and stately, but his eyes crinkle at the corners sometimes, and thunder can sound like a booming laugh. Hades’s face has always seemed rippleless. It’s a little strange to realize there’s more emotion beneath that ageless surface than he lets people believe, and it makes Nico feel guilty.

( _Guilty_. For hurting Hades’s _feelings_. Is this even happening?)

“Yeah,” he says, at a loss. “Yeah, I like Italy, too.”

“That’s evident.” His father gives a slight nod. “You can taste it.”

That’s simultaneously the weirdest and the most wonderful praise anyone’s ever given his pizza. Nico clears his throat and mumbles a thank you. They sit in silence until Hades pulls a napkin out of the empty holder. He’s left his plate, knife, and fork spotless; if Nico hadn’t been watching, he would’ve mistaken them for misplaced freshly-washed dishes. While he’s fumbling for things to say, a Bertie shows up to clear the table, and Hades’s smile only grows.

“I’m glad to see you’re using your powers for good.”

Immediately Nico’s brain clicks into defensive mode—right until the joke catches up with him and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah…” (Seriously, why can’t eloquence be a general demigod quality? It’s much more useful than dyslexia.) “They’re pretty good workers. Disintegrate sometimes, though.”

Hades is too much of an ancient divine being to say _I know, right_ , but that’s exactly the face he makes. Then the smile returns, and it isn’t just gentle anymore, it’s affectionate. “I’m sure you can deal with that. You really have grown, Nico.”

Nico jumps a little at the sound of his own name. It’s strange to hear Hades say it, and he feels the air growing dense with awkwardness again. Nevertheless, it’s a kind of recognition he knows he’s always wanted. It means he’s a person to Hades’s eyes, not just a walking extension of the god’s powers.

And he _loves_ hearing how he’s grown, even if he’ll never be as tall as Percy or Jason or, gods forbid, Frank. He isn’t a skinny, scrawny, sickly-pale kid anymore. His olive skin has a healthy glow, kneading dough really helps to pack on some muscle, and being surrounded by food contributes a whole lot to regular eating habits. He stands up straight these days, and the raven hair falling into his eyes isn’t there to hide his face—he just likes it that way, especially with his new undercut. (The amount of young men doing double takes as he walks by is pretty satisfying, too.)

Of course, what Hades really means is his lack of fear. He’s stopped running. He’s let people into his life, amazing (and loud) people, and he’s embraced himself, and he’s building a future. He can already _smell_ his future—tomato mixed with copious amounts of garlic—and he’s not even a little bit scared. He’s come a long way from the child he was when Hades saw him last, so it isn’t surprising that his father would notice the difference, but that doesn’t make it any less of a compliment.

“Thanks, Dad,” Nico says, and this time he sounds sincere.

Hades inclines his head and rises from his chair with an apologetic smile. “Well, I must return to the Underworld. How much do I owe you for the pizza?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Nico stands up, too, crosses his arms, and gives Hades a meaningful look. “I’ll put it on your tab.”

It takes his father a second to get the hint. Realization spreads across his face and he nods with all the graveness and solemnity of an oath sworn on the Styx. He reaches out a hand, places it on Nico’s shoulder, and says, “Until next time, then.”

“Yeah.” Nico’s a little taken aback by the warmth radiating from Hades’s hand. He knows the Lord of the Dead usually has cold hands, so this must be what a father’s hands feel like. He swallows hard. “See you around, Dad.”

With another nod, Hades steps outside and disappears in a swirl of shadows. Nico is ready to go back to the kitchen (he still needs to try and convince Small Bob to come out from behind the fridge) when he notices something left behind on Hades’s chair. The moment his fingers touch it, the small cardboard square sends an electric shock up his arm.

It’s a Mythomagic card, the Hades one. The stats pop into his head immediately—four-thousand attack points, five-thousand if the opponent attacks first—and his hand closes around it. No doubt Hades has noticed how that particular card is missing from the Mythomagic wand decoration Annabeth and Hazel designed together. Nico wanders over, stopping right in front of it, and looks down at the card in his hand.

Not everything is alright yet. This was just one conversation, the first in six years, and they barely talked. They certainly didn’t address any of the issues that have built a fairly solid wall between them. Hades now has a tab at his pizzeria, but it’s only the beginning, which they both know. Still, when a Bertie appears by his side with a glue stick, Nico takes it. He places the Hades card neatly between the god’s two brothers and smiles to himself.

“There you go, Dad,” he says out loud. When he turns around, the cracks in the floor close without a seam. Nico grins, tips an imaginary hat, and returns to the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don’t hesitate to leave a comment! They always make my day :)


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